


What Are Friends For?

by katrinajg



Category: The Expendables (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinajg/pseuds/katrinajg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre Expendables 3. Stonebanks muses on the past and his friendship with Barney Ross.</p><p>  <em>The gun straightens on him again, and he can see Barney go from indecision to anger. "That's how you justify this? That you're better for staying out of the carnage? You greedy prick."</em></p><p>  <em>"Then shoot me, you fuck. I'm tired of listening to your self-righteous bullshit."</em> </p><p>  <em>And Barney did.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are Friends For?

It's not often that he thinks of Barney Ross. 

In fact, for those first few years after Barney left two slugs in his chest, Stonebanks (back when he still thought of himself as Conrad Stonebanks) tries not to. The rage that accompanied it left a raw, ragged taste in the back of his throat that squeezed all the air from his chest and left him without the ability to think anything beyond: _motherfucker._

These days, he can look back on their thirty-plus year friendship and not immediately see red. As long as he's had a couple glasses of very expensive scotch first. He keeps a bottle in his gallery for such occasions. Occasions, when he wakes in the middle of the night from a half remembered dream that isn't quite a nightmare but sure as shit isn't pleasant. 

His gallery is a modest space. It's walls are a simple dusky grey colour, and a single Italian leather armchair sits directly in the centre of the room. The paintings hang in glass cages, like brightly lit birds preening in the early morning sunlight, waiting to be pursued. Over the course of a month, his chair is rotated, so he can view all four walls. 

The painting's spotlights are the only light in the space. His chair sits in the shadows, and occasionally the red glow from a cigarette sparks dimly in the darkness. Once he has contemplated the expensive (and often ridicules, because no seemed to paint like the great masters anymore) pieces, he might move them else where in the house or sell them all together. 

It is only in his gallery that he allows himself the luxury of the past. 

There, he occasionally wonders about what it would have been like if he and Barney hadn't parted ways so violently. If they had been partners like he had wanted in the first place. To have someone to share in the wealth and glory. It isn't Barney he particularly misses, that fucker could rot in hell for all he cared. It is more the general idea of a friendship that long and sordid that he craves in those wee hours of the morning. When the spotlights are low and he sits in near darkness. Whimsically, he thinks that might be an allegory to his life, the way the past is brightly lit and the now is dark.

He is convinced, that in this life, you only get one person who you can truly rely on. A soul-mate, if you will. Not a wife, mind you. They are a dime a dozen, he has had enough of them to know. But one person who will be there for you no matter what, who sticks with you through thick and thin. He fought with Barney through two wars, built a business with the man after they decided that they were tired of getting paid shit wages to kill men for the Man. He thought that was enough, that they'd built enough of a camaraderie to withstand anything.

He was wrong. 

("This is fucking wrong, Banks. You know it is." He can remember Barney's words like it's yesterday. "These assholes take these weapons and kill, murder and destroy, and who has to pick up the fucking pieces? How many innocents get caught in the cross-fire? How many families are destroyed?" He knows that that last point really gets at Barney, the way the words catch in his throat. He knows all about Barney's luck concerning loved ones. 

"And the guys we shoot down on a mission don't have families?" he snarls, broken and bloodied on the ground. The only thing keeping him going, _lucid,_ is the hot swell of rage pounding behind his eyes. "They don't have lives and loved ones? It so fucking easy to cherry pick isn't it? To decide that you won't feel bad for gunning some sop down because he had a gun and the means he didn't have a fucking life."

He knows his words affect Barney because that stupid six shooter (who uses those anymore? Who does he think he is? A fucking marshal from the Wild West sent to exact justice?) trembles a little in his grasp. They're both injured, but he is worse off. He didn't think Barney would come in guns blazing with the fucking CIA as back up. Now he is kneeling in the dirt -blood pouring down his face from a busted nose, and the sharp burn on every breath tells him his ribs are broken- with Barney standing over him. Judge, jury and executioner. 

"You can pull the trigger yourself, over give others the means to do it, but don't kid yourself Barney, pulling the trigger yourself doesn't make you better. It just makes you _poor._ Our government once gave us the means to kill others because it fit their fucking fancy. Now I do the same, only I don't tell people who to shoot."

The gun straightens on him again, and he can see Barney go from indecision to anger. "That's how you justify this? That you're better for staying out of the carnage? You greedy prick."

"Then shoot me, you fuck. I'm tired of listening to your self-righteous bullshit."

And Barney did.

Two slugs, close range right into his chest. He remembers the constricting sensation of blood pooling in his lungs, making each breath shorter than the last. He shouldn't have survived, but the bullets missed his heart and he never can decide if that was fate or if Barney missed on purpose.)

He doesn't spend too much time contemplating the might-haves and what-if's. It makes his chest ache and itch where the scar tissue is pulled taunt over the brands of his last encounter with Barney Ross. He's sure if he spent too much time thinking about it, the burn of betrayal might eat right through his chest and spill his guts all over the floor. 

Rage is a useful thing, the crippling sting of treachery is not. 

He doesn't expect to ever cross paths with Barney again. The man does think he's dead, after all. Barney has no reason to believe otherwise. That's the point. It doesn't stop him from wondering, just out of idle curiosity of course, what would happen if he did meet him again. Oh, he would kill Barney, no doubt, but how? A bomb might be nice, has a sort of grand finale that appeals to him. A gun's not a bad choice either, poetic justice one might say. Though, he's sure that if it ever came down to it, he would have to kill Barney with his bare hands. 

Just so he could be certain, really fucking certain that that motherfucker was dead. To watch for himself as the light fades from Barney's eyes, to be the last person he saw. That's right, my old buddy. He might say. I win. Just remember with your last breath of air, that every night you slept soundly believing you'd rid the world of one more bad guy, I was still out there and business was _booming._

With a smile he stuffs out the last of his cigarette. After all, what are friends for?

**Author's Note:**

> I actually had this written for a while sitting on my hard drive. I wrote it right after seeing the Expendables 3 in the theater. I then went on a Mel Gibson movie binge and promptly forgot about it. Haha.


End file.
